


A Christmas Prince

by creepy_crawly



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Artist Kim Hongjoong, Christmas Fluff, Crown Prince Park Seonghwa, Holidays, M/M, Meet-Cute, Modern Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepy_crawly/pseuds/creepy_crawly
Summary: When Hongjoong hears someone calling his art work trash, he doesn't expect the Hallmark holiday movie his life is about to become.
Relationships: Choi San/Hwang Hyunjin, Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 15
Kudos: 81





	A Christmas Prince

**Author's Note:**

> I...have nothing. There's a full universe behind this, and that may or may not see more life. For the moment, enjoy artist!Hongjoong and CrownPrince!Seonghwa colliding, while their friends (Jongho, Mingi, San, and Yunho) and family (Yeosang) look on and laugh.

Hongjoong shivered, chafing his hands together as he huddled near the small stove in the center of his booth. It had been a work of inspiration, one of those whims that had struck him in the wee hours of the morning and which he had had to bring to life in order to get out of his head. It wasn’t his usual sort of work, but he’d been grateful to be able to bring it. Not only was this art festival a great chance to get it bought and out of his studio’s storage area, but having a fire burning in it and heating up his booth was drawing in a lot of people – and keeping him from freezing solid. 

Somehow, in his excitement about being invited to take part in and sell his work at the royally-commissioned Winter Artwalk, he’d forgotten about the realities of outdoor art shows.

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t thrilled to bits with the opportunity. If anything, Hongjoong figured he was so excited that no more excitement could register. After all, of all of the thousands of submissions and applications, his had been one of only twenty selected. His artworks, shown in mission statements, artist statements, and flat photographs, had been deemed good enough for inclusion in the official state collection. The Royal Curators had looked at his submitted works and deemed them  _ good. _ Good enough to take up space at the annual event. Good enough to award his studio a royal seal. 

Good enough to commission a piece from.

He had no details about the commissioned piece yet. The organisers he had spoken with had explained that the Crown Prince would tour the event, and he would pick five artists to personally commission for the royal family’s own, personal collection, and could be anything. The other fifteen commissions would be for the state collection, and follow a more general theme. 

Hongjoong wasn’t holding his breath for anything too fancy; his pieces, shaped from reclaimed, recycled, and reshaped items, weren’t the kind of thing people usually looked to as “ooh, I want that!” His fibre crafts were popular enough – he had a nice little sideline with his reformed clothing and accessories on Etsy – but his statuary and furniture were a little more specific in their audience. Besides, just the chance to have his work included in the art collection sponsored, curated, and cared for by the state was thrilling.

Seeing a small group approaching, he steeled himself to step away from the heat of the stove. He pulled on his business smile, straightened his back, and stepped forward, just in time to hear…

“Trash?” he all but squawked.

–––

“This is cool,” Seonghwa said, pulling a hand out of his pocket just long enough to gesture towards a tall piece of art several stalls down, painted (stained?) like it was carved from a dark wood even though it looked to be composed of several old, cheap lamps and similar affordable housewares. One lamp, set in the base, was lit.

Yeosang raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

Seonghwa gestured again, then quickly tucked his hands back into the pockets of his thick jacket. “Look at the shadow, Sang-ah.”

Lit by the lamp at its own base, the piece cast a long shadow, and that was the real work of art, at least in Seonghwa’s mind. After all, this pile of plastic pieces cast a shadow that looked like a stand of trees – perhaps even the type of tree that it was painted to look like it had come from.

Seeing the same shadow that Seonghwa had, Yeosang slowly nodded his understanding. Still, he looked around the collection of pure artworks and craft pieces, dotted here and there with brightly-decorated pieces of clothing. Only then did he slant a glance in his cousin’s direction. “Not your normal kind of art, hyung,” he said, only the barest hint of question coloring his tone.

There was no judgement, but Seonghwa’s cheeks flushed a little darker for a moment anyway. “I just...it’s interesting!” he protested.

It wasn’t like Yeosang was wrong; Seonghwa’s taste in art tended to trend towards paintings of landscapes and his tastes in crafts to thick, fuzzy knitwear. The hodge-podge of recycled plastic and metal, streaked with bright acrylics, studded with shining metal, wasn’t the kind of thing people usually associated with him. To be fair, much of that had to do with the royal family’s PR managers and their staff; nothing Seonghwa liked, posted, or was seen to be enjoying online escaped their eagle-eyed attention. They’d started him young; as soon as he’d expressed a liking for the landscapes in the National Portrait Gallery, there’d been pictures of him staring up at the works of famous painters. When he’d started collecting soft cardigans, they’d made sure he was always in the finest wools in photographs, and set up trips to meet alpacas raised by local farmers.

The pieces now capturing his attention didn’t fit in with the soft, distantly quiet image that they’d built for him, not at all. Nor did they resonate much with the art Seonghwa tended to surround himself with, the lonely moors in blues and greys, the brushwork landscapes of ancient, empty mountains, the photo series of an old man’s hands reaching as if to cradle clouds in a storm-streaked sky. No, these were bolder, brighter, more brash – less a courtier making his bow, more a pirate striding in to plant his flag.

But his teachers – and his coaches, and his managers – had done their jobs; as soon as Seonghwa had shown an interest in art that went beyond the polite, “isn’t that nice,” they’d begun grooming him to take over the responsibilities of the National Art Trust’s royal patronage. He’d been exposed to all of the major art movements, with attention given to artists and styles coming from within the kingdom. Just because he usually surrounded himself with a certain aesthetic didn’t mean that he didn’t have the vocabulary – or the ability – to appreciate others. And there was something about this particular collection of pieces, a sense of  _ voice, _ of  _ self, _ breathed in every welded line, every soldered joint, each frayed hem.

“I just think it’s interesting,” he said again. “How the artist has created so much life from trash.”

A man, just stepping out from the tent, gave him a look that immediately dropped the temperature another few degrees. “Trash?!”

–––

“And  _ that _ ,” Hongjoong gravely informed Mingi, gesticulating a little too carefully at his roommate’s nose, “is how I offended our Crown Prince.”

“Which is why you’re trying to drink Jongho under the table?” the man asked, setting his laptop down on the kitchen table and taking a slow, performative look around the room. His eyes fell on Jongho, their other roommate, who was sitting across from Hongjoong and seemed to be a tad tipsy, himself. “But why is Jongho humoring you, I wonder?”

Hongjoong snorted, a messy sound that spoke of the amount of soju he’d had since getting home. “I’m humoring Jongho,” he corrected. “I might be getting hauled off to torture jail prison, but Jongho is  _ heartbroken. _ ”

“I am not, hyung,” Jongho whined, cheeks flushed. He pouted, then took another sip.

That alone told Mingi how much booze the pair had gotten through; getting Jongho red in the face took twice as much alcohol as getting Hongjoong too wobbly to sit on a stool. He found himself a little glad that he’d had a late session at the university, because the last thing he needed was to be as white-girl-wasted as his roommates could get him while grading final exams. 

Ignoring Jongho’s protest, Hongjoong squinted at Mingi. “He had a session with San today,” he said. “And San said he wanted his card, so he could give it to Hyunjinnie.”

“Hyunjinnie?” Mingi asked, knowing already how this would end.

“Hyunjinnie,” Jongho agreed, toasting Hongjoong with his bottle. “His boyfriend.”

Mingi winced, understanding suddenly why Jongho, usually so conscious of what he was putting into his body on a weeknight, was joining Hongjoong in a Poor Life Decision Pity Party. Jongho had been bemoaning the fact that having taken their overwhelmingly attractive neighbor, Choi San, on as a client meant that he couldn’t also ask him out for some weeks now, and they all knew he’d been attracted to the man for longer. San was one of those people who just radiated goodness from beneath his unfairly beautiful skin, after all, and no one could blame Jongho for being drawn to him. Hell, even Mingi found San attractive, and his reaction to romance and sex could be summed up as, “thanks, but no thanks.”

Jongho had been trying to find the courage to move San to another one of his coworkers, so that he could ask him out. And now…

“Boyfriend,” Jongho said, sighing gustily. His pout deepened. “He showed me a picture, hyung.”

“Yeah?” Mingi asked, pulling a chair out from the table. Absently, he began dropping bottles into the recycling bin. A long reach was a gift, some days.

Jongho nodded. “He’s pretty, hyung. Like.  _ Pretty. _ ”

“You’re pretty, too,” Hongjoong said, pouting back. He did so hate it when they got down on themselves, and especially when Jongho – his baby – did. “And you can, like, bench...me. And probably Mingi.”

“Definitely Mingi,” Mingi said, thinking of the personal bests listed in Jongho’s Insta profile. “Maybe not Mingi-plus-backpack. But definitely Mingi.”

Jongho frowned at him. “If you’d just carry fewer texts…”

“Then I’d be even further behind on my thesis,” Mingi returned. “Besides, you already got me doing weight-lifting exercises so I can pick the stupid bag up, Ho-ya. Gotta leave me some noodle-arm nerd street cred.”

“Only noodle arms here are hyung’s,” Jongho said, pointing at Hongjoong. “Which is why we’re gonna hide him if the royal guards come to take him away. He’ll fit under your bed.”

“So glad we’ve got this all figured out,” Mingi said, grinning as he watched Hongjoong kicking at the other man’s shins beneath the table. “Now, have you two eaten more than those ramen cups?”

–––

“This one’s not like your usual choices, at all, Your Royal Highness,” Sohyeon said, pointing at one of the artists that Seonghwa had laid out as his selections for this year’s personal commissions. “May I ask what drove you to select his work?”

Seonghwa flushed a little, thinking of the way the artist in question’s eyes had shone as he’d glared up at him, defending his work and the materials that went into it. “He has...passion.”

Sohyeon raised an elegant, well-groomed eyebrow at him. As one of the more experienced curators of the royal family’s collection, she had spent a lot of time around Seonghwa, and had even been involved in getting him familiar with his own family’s collection of fine art, furniture, and other such pieces. She might call him by a title, but she knew the man in front of her well enough to know that he had the vocabulary and the drive to properly describe his interest in someone’s work.

Under her gaze, Seonghwa dropped his eyes. “His work is reflective of his drive and interest in repurposing and revitalising forgotten or deliberately discarded items, to give them new life and reason,” he explained. “In speaking about his art, he was very...clear, shall we say, in that regardless of how cheap or ugly the things he had collected were, they served some purpose for someone. He calls his shop ReFormation, because he believes that through his commodity and trash art assemblages, he can not only re-form the item he’s working with, but also reform the way we, the public, think about the item and our use of it. And how we discard it.”

Thinking of the way Kim Hongjoong had stood, posture strong and stance firm, as he told Seonghwa and Yeosang, in front of their snickering bodyguards, that what went into his work was not  _ trash, _ was not  _ useless _ , Seonghwa let his hand drift to his pocket.  _ Things have only the meaning we give them _ , he remembered Hongjoong saying, even as he had handed him a small, seemingly-rusty hexnut.  _ Sometimes we need to be reminded to look for that meaning. _

In his pocket, his fingers brushed against the smooth side of the small nut, the side that Hongjoong had sanded down and resined over, and the tiny bloom hidden there.

“He has passion,” Seonghwa repeated. “And I found his message compelling.”

Looking back down at the file, Sohyeon made an accepting noise. “I’m guessing you’ll wish to formulate the commission from him, then, Your Royal Highness? He seems to have made a mark on you.” She narrowed her eyes as she flipped through the photographs included in the file. “Also, curse you; I was hoping to snag one of his faux-grained plastic pieces for the National collection.”

Seonghwa looked back up at her. “You still could? He had several on display at the booth, and I imagine he wouldn’t mind doing a custom piece if you had something particular in mind.”

But Sohyeon shook her head. “Wouldn’t look ethical at all,” she said, “him getting both a personalised commission from you and a commission from the Trust. I was just hoping to get one of those faux-grained chairs or similar for display in the Wildlands Conservancy office. The natural wood look on something so cheap and disposable… It has impact.”

Humming his understanding, Seonghwa cast around for a solution. He didn’t want to give up his claim on a commission from Hongjoong, and he knew that Sohyeon wouldn’t ask it of him. There were, on occasion, advantages to being the Crown Prince for an entire kingdom. 

Suddenly, an idea struck him. “Lord Choi,” he said.

Sohyeon frowned. “Beg pardon?”

“Lord Choi,” Seonghwa repeated. “His Lordship Choi Joohyun. He makes a big deal about sponsoring the Conservancy Trusts. He could be...persuaded, shall we say, to purchase a piece, with the intentions of it being loaned to the Wildlands Conservancy? He has been expressing an interest in becoming more of a patron of the arts, as of late…”

It was clear that Sohyeon wanted to snort at that comment, but she held it in. “You’ll have to do the persuading,” she warned. “I am in no position, social or otherwise, to get an Earl to do my bidding. He’s got no favours to curry from me, after all.”

Seonghwa waved away this concern easily. “I will, I will. He’s always so nervous around me – not sure why – so if I so much as suggest that I saw this piece, wouldn’t it be lovely… I suspect he’ll go for it.”

“And this,” Sohyeon said, carefully turning her attention to the next file, “is why I am grateful that I can work  _ with _ you, Your Royal Highness.”

–––

“Yeosang, dear.”

Yeosang, desperately trying to pretend that he wasn’t struggling to catch his breath after dashing down the Grand Hall, turned to look at his aunt. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

Her Majesty, Queen Seonmi, born of the House of Five Kingdoms and current ruler of the country, treated her oldest nephew to a Look. It was one that had been refined over years of trying to rein in wild young men, starting with Yeosang’s own father.

Beneath her gaze, Yeosang simply smiled. 

“Butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth,” His Highness, Prince Consort Kyung said, watching the interplay between his nephew and his wife. Then, a little more loudly, he added, “you’re lucky your looks come from your mother, Yeosang-ah. I’m afraid that Her Majesty has known your father far too well to fall for  _ his _ innocent looks.”

Beside him, the queen all but rolled her eyes. “As if Yunghwan  _ has _ innocent looks. He used them all up trying to get out of the nursery when we were small.” She looked back to Yeosang. “Do try not to run down the Grand Hall; it is one thing to arrive to a meal late, but another entirely to arrive late and disheveled.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Yeosang acknowledged, bowing his head in lieu of the full bow that would have been expected, had they not all been seated. 

The queen accepted this with a nod, then lifted a hand and gestured minutely. Around the room, footmen began to carry in the first course, placing it on the table before the four diners. The queen paid them no attention, her attention instead fixed on her only son and immediate heir. “Seonghwa.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“What’s this I hear from your father about you charming Lord Choi?”

Across the table from Seonghwa, Yeosang made a ghastly face. He struggled to ignore it; he, too, rather disliked the Earl. Still, Yeosang had sat through the same etiquette classes he had, and knew that in one of the public spaces, Seonghwa had to keep a relatively straight face.

“There is a piece from one of the artists on the Artwalk that Curator Sohyeon would like to see placed in the Wildlands Conservancy’s public office,” Seonghwa explained to his mother, trying not to let the face his cousin was making throw him off. “Unfortunately, as I have chosen him as one of our personal commissions…” He shrugged. “I simply told Lord Choi about the lovely art I had seen, and how I wished there was some way the Wildlands Conservancy could benefit from the message the artist had shared. Why, our own curator even liked the art! He was very eager to find out if he could speak to her, to determine what might be the most appropriate piece to donate.”

The prince consort clapped his hands together in understanding. “Ah, I get it now! I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why you would willingly be speaking about  _ art _ with  _ Choi Joohyun, _ of all people, but you can’t double commission the artist, and I suspect Sohyeon wants that piece before the tricentennial celebration really kicks off, doesn’t she?”

“Please do not get into the habit of manipulating the nobility, Seonghwa,” Seonmi sighed. “You know better.”

“I do, Your Majesty,” Seonghwa said, lowering his gaze. “I apologise. It seemed...the best solution, at the time, I’m afraid. Lord Choi is rather known for his love of the Conservancy Trusts, after all.”

“Excuses are not valid reasons,” the queen reminded him. “Although I do look forward to seeing what Sohyeon has selected. She does have such a lovely eye for combining modern art with a sense of history.” She smiled at her son. “Which, I am glad to say, she seems to have trained into you.”

Yeosang frowned ever-so-slightly, a tiny little tilt of the lips that might have gone entirely unnoticed if he hadn’t been seated across from Seonghwa. “Hang on,” he said, eyes narrowing. “This artist…”

Seonghwa closed his own eyes.

“Might he be short, have red-dyed hair, a little nose ring? Feisty and passionate? Gave you a gift?”

It took everything Seonghwa had not to bury his face in his hands. 

At the head of the table, the queen was looking more than a little stunned. “A giftt? Seonghwa, you know–”

“Nothing of monetary value, Mother,” Seonghwa said swiftly. Reaching into his pocket – and trying to miss the look of definite delight on Yeosang’s face upon realising he was carrying it with him – Seonghwa pulled out the small hexnut that Hongjoong had given him. He handed it to the footman standing nearest, who carried it to the queen. “A little thing he had had inspiration for, he said, but no sense of its purpose, until we were discussing his works.”

“Discussing,” Yeosang said sweetly. “It was pretty heated for that.”

“Seonghwa!”

Seonghwa did everything he could to radiate the cool, calm collectedness expected of royalty while also sending a clear sense of  _ I will murder you where you stand, Kang Yeosang _ into the universe. “There was a misunderstanding, Mother. As Yeosang mentioned, Kim Hongjoong is a very passionate artist. There is a lot of...fervor, if you will, in his words.”

Seonmi stared at her son for a long, long moment. Then, in the most horrifying turn of events possible, a knowing smile started to curl in the corner of her lips. “Why, Park Kyung –”

_ The birth name _ , Seonghwa thought, horrorstruck.  _ She’s using his birth name! _

“I do believe our son has a crush!”

Royal inscrutability be damned; Seonghwa groaned and buried his face in his hands.

–––

Hongjoong gaped at the letter – the  _ parchment  _ letter – in his hands. He’d been standing there gaping at it for some time already, but he still hadn’t managed to convince himself that it wasn’t a joke, so…

“What’s up, hyung?” San asked, stepping into the kitchen, his arms full of take out containers, his usual contribution to their weekly get-togethers. Setting the boxes down on the counter, he casually took the letter from Hongjoong’s loose grip and started scanning it. 

It didn’t take long for his eyes to go wide. “Wow, hyung!” he said, looking up from the letter. “Congratulations!”

Jongho stuck his head in the kitchen, only the littlest bit wild around the eyes. “What’s – oh, hi, San-hyung.”

San turned and beamed at him, the heart-melting smile lifting the corners of his eyes. “Look at this!” he said, waving the letter rapidly in Jongho’s face. “Look! We’re clearly celebrating Hongjoong-hyung tonight!”

“What are we celebrating?” Mingi asked, sliding past the knot at the doorway and starting to pull out the containers that San had brought from work. “Oh, wow, you got some good stuff today, San.”

“Mm? Oh, yeah, that new chef, Wooyoung, was learning the menu, so I picked up some extras on my way out,” San said. He waved the letter he was still holding at Mingi. “Which is good! Hongjoong-hyung gets only the best! Lobster ravioli all around!”

“And steak, and potatoes, and greens,” Mingi murmured, opening up the boxes. “But what are we celebrating?”

Hongjoong turned his wide-eyed gaze to him. “I...the Crown Prince.”

Mingi blinked. “Are we celebrating you going to torture prison jail?”

“What?” Hongjoong asked, blinking and shaking his head. “No. No! No, the commission from the Artwalk...I got selected.”

“For a commission?” Mingi echoed, a grin starting to dawn on his face.

“Not just for  _ a _ commission,” San said, prim as a schoolmarm. “For the  _ Prince’s _ commission.”

“Hyung!” Mingi cheered, throwing his arms around the smaller man. “Oh my god, hyung, congratulations!”

Jongho leapt into the embrace, too, knocking the breath from both of his roommates.

–––

“So,” Yeosang said, stepping into the office Seonghwa had claimed as his own without so much as a by-your-leave, then lounging back against the door he’d closed behind him.

Pausing the recording of the chamber session he’d been watching, Seonghwa shot his cousin a dark look. “I would have you put in a cell in the bowels of the dungeons for that stunt at dinner the other night,” he said, “if there weren’t a law making it treason for one member of the line of inheritance to act against another extrajudicially.”

Yeosang smirked back at him. “I want nothing to do with your crown,” he assured Seonghwa. “Your embarrassment, on the other hand…” 

Seonghwa made a rude noise. “What brings you in here, you traitor?” he asked. “Because your hands are empty, so you’re not bringing me coffee.”

“I’m your cousin, not your waitstaff,” Yeosang shot back. “But Auntie was asking if you had anyone in mind for a date to the Christmas Eve gala. She wants an excuse, any excuse, not to have you hounded by Lady Bora’s youngest.”

“Eugh, I’d rather not have to deal with her, either,” Seonghwa groaned. Was it too much to ask, to have a single year without having to deal with the nobility’s efforts to marry their children closer to the throne? He wanted nothing to do with Shim Eunhwa, and to the best of his knowledge, she wasn’t that excited by the prospect of a relationship with him, either. And while most of the nobles, including even the most pushy mothers, had seemed to accept that Seonghwa wasn’t going to just up and marry whichever girl sat next to him the longest (or boy, once they’d picked up on his occasional male companion), not all of them seemed to have gotten the message.

Yeosang shrugged elegantly. “Then I hope you’ve got another idea.”

Seonghwa groaned again. As his gaze fell back on his desk, however, he grinned. “Actually,” he said, “I might just.”

Following his gaze, Yeosang grinned, too. “You know this won’t help your mom’s...excitement.”

“You’ll just have to invite Yunho, then. That cute boy from the farm sanctuary?” As he spoke, Seonghwa scooped up the business card that had caught his eye and stood up, already moving to head down the hall to find his mother – or, at least, the member of her staff tasked with figuring out invitations to the gala.

“I...what?!” Yeosang all but howled, watching him go.

–––

“This is...this is a joke, right?” Hongjoong managed, finally managing to pull his eyes up from the heavyweight cardstock in his hand so that he could stare at the elegantly-suited young woman standing in the center of the studio he shared with another local artist. “Like...my friends have put you up to this, haven’t they?”

The young woman shook her head soberly, still standing at a very proper attention. She certainly  _ looked _ the part; she was dressed in long, dark blue trousers with a crimson red silk stripe down the side, and the waistcoat under her dark blue jacket was a pale, buttery yellow. She was wearing simple white gloves, and the buttons at her wrist were the same dark red shade as the ribbon, tied in a bow, that served as her cravat. Complete with the low-heeled dark boots shined to a mirror glow, and the low, braided bun she was wearing her hair in, and Hongjoong would have believed she was a royal footman, but for one thing: the invitation she had handed him.

There was no way in any universe that he, Kim Hongjoong, had just received an actual invitation to the royal family’s Christmas Eve gala. He wasn’t famous, wasn’t noble, and wasn’t soul-cripplingly wealthy. He hadn’t single-handedly saved a bus full of orphans from a fire, or rescued an abbey’s worth of nuns from a frozen lake. There was no reason – except for his impromptu lecturing of the Crown Prince – that anyone anywhere near the throne should even know of his existence.

“Sir,” the young woman said again, “I have been tasked by His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of the Five Kingdoms, to deliver this invitation to Kim Hongjoong, the artist who created the piece  _ Aurora _ . Furthermore, I’ve been instructed to await a response.”

Hongjoong shook his head, looking back down at the invitation. “You have  _ got _ to be joking.”

The woman sighed, then relaxed her pose ever so slightly. “Sir, His Royal Highness requested that I contact him if you didn’t believe me. He suspected you might not.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, looking back to her. “I’m not sure that would help; it’s not like I am familiar with the voices of the  _ royal family _ or anything.”

She shook her head, reaching into the inside of her jacket to pull out a slim smartphone. “No, sir. Perhaps not. But the Crown Prince has requested it, so…” Locating the number, she pressed the phone icon beside it.

The phone only rang once before it was picked up. “Park Seonghwa.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. He’d known, of course, that the Crown Prince had a legal family name, but he certainly didn’t anticipate that he’d answer the phone with that particular name.

“Your Royal Highness,” Miyeon said. “I am here with Kim Hongjoong.”

“Ah,” the voice on the other end – admittedly, vaguely familiar to Hongjoong. “He doubts the invitation?”

Hongjoong spoke up. “I’m an artist,” he said simply, folding his arms across his chest. “This is not exactly normal, in my experience.”

Presumably-the-Prince hummed. “Does it help, then, if I tell you that I still have the hexnut you gave me during the Winter Artwalk?”

Taken aback, Hongjoong stammered out a reply. “I...Your Royal Highness?” he managed, feeling his heart drop to somewhere around his knees.

“Please,” the Crown Prince said, laughing a little. “On this phone line, I’m just Seonghwa. But you now trust the invitation Miyeon delivered, I hope?”

“I,” Hongjoong said, “um. Yes?”

“Excellent! Will you accept?”

Hongjoong gaped at Miyeon. “I...Your Royal High – uh, Seonghwa. I’m...I’m just an artist. I’ve got… Okay, I’ve got less than no frame of reference for how to act at this sort of event. Or how to dress. Or what to  _ say _ .”

“Say yes,” Seonghwa said promptly, with only the slightest hint of wheedle in his voice. “The gala is certainly one of the least formal of our formal events. I’ll of course supply your wardrobe – unless you’ve got a formal hanbok available?”

“Definitely not,” Hongjoong said. “I’m still not sure you’re not making a mistake.”

“If I am,” Seonghwa said, “it’ll be one I’m happy to be making. Please say you’ll come?”

After a long moment, Hongjoong bit his lip, and then nodded. “Very well, Your – Seonghwa. I accept.”

–––

“I...wow,” Seonghwa managed, standing stock still and staring at the man in front of him. “Eunhyuk-nim said you were experimenting, but…”

Flushing, Hongjoong ducked his head, looking more closely at the clothing he was wearing. “Is it okay?” he asked.

Seonghwa blinked. “Eunhyuk-nim wouldn’t have let you out of his shop if he thought it was inappropriate,” he said. “No, Hongjoong-ssi, you look… You look amazing. Just… awe-inspiring.”

The hanbok that Hongjoong was wearing was formal wear, that much was certain. But the tailor that Seonghwa himself patronised, Eunhyuk, had created an initial design that was comfortably modern and stylish. He had confirmed Seonghwa’s approval for Hongjoong’s customisations, but hadn’t gone into detail. 

Now, seeing the changes in person, Seonghwa wasn’t sure if he was grateful for the surprise or not.

As the Crown Prince, Seonghwa wore deepest ruby reds, often embellished with gold. His hanbok for this evening was a dark red silk, woven through with gold thread to produce an intriguing shine when he moved. His jeogori was simple cream linen, to better offset the red of the baji and jokki he was wearing, though the collar and cuffs were embroidered in gold. His buttons were simple pearls.

Hongjoong, his companion, was also dressed in red, though not nearly so jeweled a shade as Seonghwa’s. Instead, he was wearing baji and a jokki made out of a ruddy red ramie. His jeogori was linen, like Seonghwa’s, but it was a deeper shade of gold, more of a buttery yellow than anything. Where Seonghwa’s hanbok spoke of wealth and majesty, Hongjoong’s was a work of nature-inclined art.

Which wasn’t to say that there was no shine. Hongjoong had decorated the buttons of his jokki himself, with shattered pieces of red glass carefully set together to sparkle and bounce the light around. He’d hand-stitched and hand-painted the ribbons and cuffs of his clothing, adding streaks of ruby red and the same near-white of Seonghwa’s jeogori, shaping flowers, waves, and other natural images.

He had removed many of his piercings, and the ones that remained were set with simple stones and goldtone metal. His eyes were carefully rimmed in deep red-brown liner, and a smudge of ever-so-slightly shimmering red streaked out from the corners of his lids.

Finally meeting his eyes, Seonghwa swallowed. “Hongjoong,” he said, “you’re absolutely beautiful.”

–––

“You know,” Hongjoong said, nearly in a whisper, as he stood beside the Crown Prince in a massive ballroom, “you could have warned me that I would be announced as your  _ companion _ .”

Seonghwa treated him to a somewhat sheepish smile. He could feel Hongjoong trembling from where the other man was pressed up beside him, so close he near fancied he could hear his heart racing. “Apologies,” he whispered back. “It entirely slipped my mind.”

Hongjoong looked at him sidelong. “Are there any other surprises for which I should be prepared, Your Royal Highness?”

After a moment of thought, Seonghwa said, “no, I really do think you should anticipate the rest of it. It’s all finger foods, pleasant conversation, and a couple of ballroom dances from here on out.” He paused. “Um, Miyeon said you told her you know how to waltz…?”

“What would you do if I said I had lied?” Hongjoong asked, morbidly curious.

Seonghwa slanted a look at him, even as he bobbed his head and smiled at a passing member of the nobility. “Honestly? Come up with an excuse to get you out of the room, and have Felix – one of the guards – race you through it.”

“It’s a good thing I was being honest, then,” Hongjoong said. “I did ballroom in college; the dance studio was closer to the art studio I basically lived in than any of the athletic fields.” He grinned. “And I know how to follow. There was an uneven number, in my class.”

“Honestly, I am quite glad to hear that,” Seonghwa said. “I will only be able to dance with you once or twice; it’s practically a requirement that I dance with several members of the Court. But several people here are art lovers, and I know that the Duchess Hong, at least, considers herself well past her dancing years. She much prefers to watch others dance, and to have pleasant conversation.”

“Right,” Hongjoong murmured, steadying himself. “Pleasant conversation. I can do that.”

Taking pity on him, Seonghwa tucked an arm behind his back. “Most members of the peerage will be far more curious about you than they want to admit, so I imagine you can get away with talking about your art, or about the commission you’re making.” As they stepped out into the main flow of the room, he shot Hongjoong a sideways look. “I don’t suppose I can get any details…?”

Hongjoong snorted quietly. “Not a chance,” he said through a tight smile, bobbing his head politely as he and Seonghwa dipped out of another couple’s path. “You said you wanted me to surprise you, Your Royal Highness.”

“So I did,” Seonghwa said, pouting. Then, dropping his arm from Hongjoong’s hips, he came to a pause. “Ah, Hongjoong, might I introduce you to my uncle, the Grand Duke Yunghwan, and his wife, Duchess Hyuna?”

–––

“So,” Seonghwa said, taking Hongjoong’s hand in his own as they stepped out into the chill night air.

“So,” Hongjoong echoed, looking up at him. His cheeks were flushed from the heat of the ballroom, and likely from laughter; he had been quickly making friends with roughly half the peerage. 

After the obligatory opening dance with Seonghwa, Hongjoong had let the Crown Prince tour him around to a few more nobles for introductions. While Seonghwa had danced with his mother, and then his aunt, and then a few other noble ladies, Hongjoong had enjoyed himself, discussing art and his outfit with various guests. He had been thoroughly charming the young Princess Areum, who was interested in pursuing a career in the arts, when Seonghwa had swept back over.

“Milady,” Seonghwa had said, bowing to his twelve year old cousin. “Might I steal back my escort?”

Areum had stood and offered a tremblingly proper curtsy to him; this was her first year being allowed at the gala that preceded the larger family Christmas event. “Of course, Your Royal Highness,” she said. “Thank you for the grace of his presence.” Turning to Hongjoong, she’d bowed, and then impishly added, “and thank you for your advice! You’re way more fun than Cousin Seonghwa.”

While Seonghwa had squawked in faux-offended splendor, Hongjoong had laughed, eyes bright and smile wide as he had followed Seonghwa for another dance.

And here they were now, standing outside on a balcony, underneath a crystal-clear sky, music and laughter and conversation drifting out from inside. Hongjoong was still smiling, though his expression had softened some, warming with the heat of his cheeks and the passage of time. 

“So,” Hongjoong said again, squeezing Seonghwa’s hands in his own. “Thank you for inviting me. Even if I didn’t believe you at first.”

Seonghwa beamed back at him. “Thank you for deigning to attend,” he said. “I… It certainly has been more interesting, this year, than in years past. And the company much better.”

Hongjoong’s smile was a soft, gentle thing, lit from behind by the warm lights from inside, the false starlight of the hanging fairy lights glowing from above. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining, and drifting across Seonghwa’s face.

Biting his lip, Seonghwa decided to take a risk. He was doing that a lot, with Hongjoong around, he realised. He was pretty sure that was a good thing.

–––

“May I kiss you?” Seonghwa asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Please,” Hongjoong answered, his heart doing triple time in his chest. Tangling his fingers with Seonghwa’s, he pushed himself up on his toes, to bring them just that little bit closer.

Kissing Seonghwa wasn’t like something out of one of those tacky romance movies, with birds singing or snow falling or a shooting star overhead. Hongjoong’s foot didn’t pop up, he didn’t swoon back, and Seonghwa was far too much of a gentleman to try and cop a feel. 

Honestly, it was a bit like any other first kiss – nervous, excited, and just a little uncertain. 

In short…

“Perfect,” Hongjoong breathed, breaking away with a little shiver. He could see the fairy lights shining back at him from Seonghwa’s eyes, like stars gathering there, amid the fog of their co-mingling breaths. Behind the other man, he could hear the clocktower chiming the hour – midnight.

“Merry Christmas,” Seonghwa said, leaning in to steal another kiss.

Tucking himself more tightly against Seonghwa’s warm weight, Hongjoong kissed him back, relishing in the heat of his touch. With his eyes shut, tangled in Seonghwa’s arms, Hongjoong felt like might just be floating.

Eventually, though, breathing became a priority, and the cold became too hard to ignore. Hongjoong pulled back first, licking his lips. “Happy holidays to me,” he said, a little dazed and a lot pleased as he met Seonghwa’s eyes.

The taller man was watching his lips, his own breath coming quickly. Whatever he might have been preparing to say, however, was lost in the sudden rush of a night breeze. Seonghwa shivered, then, breaking their gazes. “Should...should we get inside?” he asked.

Hongjoong grinned crookedly at him. “Trying to seduce me, Your Royal Highness?”

Seonghwa snorted. “If by seduce, you mean keep my rear attached for you to admire at a later date…”

Laughing, Hongjoong let him tug him down the balcony, towards a less-lit door, and then back into the warmth of the palace, out of sight of the still-lively party.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Want to see more? Want to find out what's up with San and Hyunjin? What's Wooyoung doing cooking lobster ravioli? How does Yeosang know Yunho?
> 
> Comment and let me know!


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